


Soon Comes Rain

by MapleTreeway



Series: Skeleton Me [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), connor's point of view, first part of a series, reflections on life shared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-06-22 17:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15586659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleTreeway/pseuds/MapleTreeway
Summary: Connor parks the car, hears it shutter to a halt. When he looks over at the passenger side, he swears he sees Hank sitting there. His loud shirt contrasts the quiet solemness in his eyes. Hank opens his mouth, memories ready to bloom from his tongue, but Connor blinks. Connor blinks, saline spilling out, and Hank is replaced with the urn. Gone quietly yet leaving Connor with a loud roaring in his ears.This isn't fair.





	Soon Comes Rain

**Author's Note:**

> first part of the series! after this, it'll focus on Connor's and Hank's relationship's progress from the revolution onward. hope you enjoy the depressing appetizer

**December 22nd, 2065**

_ Whoosh. _

All of Connor’s breath escapes from his chest like a baby bird trying to fly the nest for the first time: shaky and plummeting fast. Too fast, unfortunately, to register that he needs to flap his wings, gain some air, breathe.

Red accosts his vision. A wave floods his chest. Saline blurs the ground to bits. This reaction is not rational, no.  _ Everything  _ had been planned. Hank’s outcome had been talked through 53 times over the course of 26 years, 8 months, and 15 days. Roughly 27% of those talks had occurred within the past four years. Really —  in a logical sense — he should have been well prepared for today. At the bare minimum, prepared well enough to not let saline leak through.

_ “Bull _ **_shit_ ** _ , Connor. You’re not a fuckin’ machine — never were, never will be.” _

_ “It would be beneficial for both of us. It has been shown that people who accept mortality and make plans for their final moments have a better outlook on life.” _

_ “That so?” _

_ “In theory, yes.” _

_ Theories _ , Connor thinks, fingers wet from the saline on his cheeks,  _ have the probability to turn out wrong. _

Thirium pump pounding out his plastic skull, Connor steps outside. The wind chips at him, ices the shallow rivulets on his face. Under normal circumstances, the urn in his hands shouldn’t feel like a sack of dead weight. Under normal circumstances, the urn in his hands should’ve felt like a filled urn. Approximately 6.78 pounds with no added psychological baggage. No excess memories dying to be remembered.

His shoes clip softly against the snowed-up stone stairs. There’s a hidden patch of black ice on the edge of a middle stair, and he nearly slips backwards. He rights himself instinctively, one hand letting go of Hank to grasp onto the frosted railing. With bated breath, he gathers himself before continuing down.

Dust and dogwood greet Connor when he slides inside Hank’s elderly car. It’s not the same as the one Hank had owned when Connor burst into his life — that one had broken down beyond repair two years after the revolution — but it is still (unbearably) retro. Having been manufactured in 2007, the seats stay where they are; the radio has dials to operate; and the entire car’s nearly devoid of modern technology. Unfamiliar as it is, though, it still feels like  _ theirs. _

The engine roars to life, shakes the vehicle’s frame.

Hank had wanted his ashes scattered off the Dixie Highway and into Anchor Bay. Out of respect, Connor’s only been there twice before. Once to drive Hank home, his therapy session having left him too emotionally exhausted to do so himself. Then again when a couple months later they had returned. Flowers were placed on the side of the highway, a few quiet words were spoken, six years’ worth of tears were shed.

Closure.

Snow falls on the windshield and is then wiped away. The water streaks left behind distorts the road, makes it look like blurred stained glass where it runs. Buildings give way to nature; people give way to the occasional animal. Outside the city’s limits, not much has been rebuilt or upgraded to current standards. 

It feels like forever — maybe there’s a fault in Connor’s internal clock — but soon the bay comes into view. Connor grips the wheel tighter than he means to upon realizing that the water’s been frozen over. He can’t scatter Hank. Not unless he breaks the ice somehow.

There’s a viewing turnoff two miles ahead. It’s about as close to the water as he can get without fully leaving the Dixie. It’ll have to do.

Connor parks the car, hears it shutter to a halt. When he looks over at the passenger side, he swears he sees Hank sitting there. His loud shirt contrasts the quiet solemness in his eyes. Hank opens his mouth, memories ready to bloom from his tongue, but Connor blinks. Connor blinks, saline spilling out, and Hank is replaced with the urn. Gone quietly yet leaving Connor with a loud roaring in his ears. 

_ This isn’t fair. _

* * *

Exiting out of stasis becomes harder and harder to want to do. 

Out of habit, Connor becomes conscious to the feel of soft cotton sheets and a feather pillow. He blinks, eyes focusing in on the ceiling while his mind states the date and time. December 23rd, 2065. 5:48 AM. 

He supposes he should get up, get ready, get to work. Continue functioning even though his life partner can’t anymore. There’s an open case involving a triple homicide that needs following up on. A suspect had been arrested just a week earlier, cooperated in the interrogation room, but ultimately hadn’t given enough to produce a substantial lead. Connor could get her to talk again, then go find some eyewitnesses. Move the case forward.

5:52 AM.

Connor rolls onto his side, looks out the window from where he lays. Out there the world’s dark. Cold, too. Snow falls, the wind howls, he feels an ache in his chest. If Hank were here, he’d have draped an arm around Connor’s midsection. Connor would feel the weight of Hank’s forehead pressing against his back, feel their legs intertwine at the ankles. If Hank were here, they’d lay like that in a companionable silence as long as time allowed. Cocooned, warm, and lazy.

The ache in Connor’s chest grows.

Decades ago, he would have run a diagnostic to see if something in his system was malfunctioning. But he’s grown and experienced and come miles from when he first became deviant and so he knows. He knows what the ache is. Can put a name to it. Can pin plenty of experiences to it.

But it’s never felt this hollow before, never this deeply situated. 

6:02 AM.

He’s frozen where he lays. All he can manage is to clutch his pillow and lose himself in those lazy morning memories. A gentle reprieve from the cold inside.

* * *

“You want to do  _ what _ now?”

Connor levels his eyes at the Captain. They’re sitting across from each other, the door to the office closed for privacy sake. Like always with this new Captain, there’s barely anything personal in the room. No trinkets or familial pictures or plants. It’s a strictly professional atmosphere. Has been for the past 5 years or so.

“I want to take three weeks off,” Connor repeats. He tries to remain collected even though staccato-esque rhythms drum from his fingertips.

The Captain runs a hand on his bare chin. He’s got guarded eyes framed by crow’s feet, which crinkle when he gives a wan smile. “I understand that the past few days have not been...easy, so to speak. But in my experience, having a set schedule helps to work through grief more productively than time off.”

“All due respect, sir, but I have worked here for nearly 27 years. In that timeframe I have only taken a total of 4 months off. Please. I…”

_ I need time to process. _

Connor grips his knees, swallows. Tears threaten to leak through again; his throat becomes a desert. Crying is a natural emotional response, yet he doesn’t want to do that here. Not in front of this brick walled man.

There’s a silence. 

Connor looks at the analog clock on the desk in front of him. 10:45 AM. He should say something. 10:47 AM. Plead his case, convince his boss,  _ something _ . 10:49 AM. The air starts to sour under the awkward atmosphere. He doesn’t say a thing. The words won’t come to him. Even if they did, he can’t muster up enough willpower to open his mouth. It’s glued shut.

The Captain audibly breathes in. “RK,” he finally says. Connor snaps to attention, watches him lean forward. “What you’re going through is rough, but what Detroit is going through is worse. We’re getting fucked in the ass with all these homicide investigations.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be of much use current —”

“The best I can give you is one week leave. Knowing you, you’ll probably be back in less than 5 days anyway.”

Connor exhales. Deflates. Taps his palms on the chair’s handles. Nods even though the Captain’s not paying attention to him anymore. Gets up. Leaves without another word.

* * *

Connor doesn’t go home until the sun melts under the horizon and the cold freezes his extremities. 

When he enters, tracking snow behind him, he feels lost. His hand doesn’t leave the doorknob even after it closes with a soft  _ click _ . It feels like a small life preserver — similar to the kind Hank had thrown to him years ago on a trip to Lake Huron. 

The door feels rough against his back. Feels awkward to lean his head against its panels, too.

_ “I thought you knew how to swim!” _

_ “I do know how to swim!” _

_ “Then why the hell do you need the life preserver?” _

_ “In case of an emergency.” _

_ “In case of an — Jesus, Con, this isn’t the Pacific.” _

Connor doesn’t let go of the doorknob for a long time. 

It’s not like he can cook himself comfort food. Not like he can drink himself dry. Not like he can do half the things humans do when in this state. 

That doesn’t mean that he has to be completely directionless. He has hobbies, chores, things he can do to kill the time. Idle hands never did much for his negative state of mind. He had been programmed to be of use, to integrate and to work. Even after becoming deviant, work’s a constant. A must.

It’s probably for the better that he only has one week leave, now that he thinks on it. 

Now he just needs to bring himself to let go.

* * *

Every morning, Connor checks the weather. Every morning, the weather shows no signs of warming up. Why he bothers to check every single day is beyond him. It’s not like the weather can change on a whim or when he wants it to.

He feels restless. Out of control. He needs to change his clothes. It’s been three days since he last had.

Connor enters their —  _ his  _ — bedroom for the first time since he’d put the urn on Hank’s dresser. It rests beside Hank’s old turntable, encompassed by various Jazz vinyls he’d collected throughout his years. 

Occasionally, on quiet nights, Hank would put a record on. Connor liked those nights best; liked to lean against Hank’s chest, eyes closed, and become intensely conscious. Fully aware of the warmth of Hank’s arms draped around his shoulders; fully aware of the pleasing way the notes in the songs would hit his ears; fully aware of how much Hank’s beard itched his skin. Every receptor was opened. Every thought was cleared. 

Those were the nights Connor felt most alive.

The wooden floor feels cold even through his sweatpants when he sits down. His back presses against the bed — just how Hank’s would — and he hugs his knees. There’s no music, he isn’t ready for that yet, so he just stares. There are no thoughts to clear, and his receptors feel numb. Everything feels out of reach, far away.

He does not feel very alive.

Something suddenly bubbles under his skin. Sets his thirium pump aflame, knots his brow together. A warning flashes across his vision, but he blinks it away without reading it. Why doesn’t he feel alive? Why can’t his receptors pick anything up? 

What the  _ fuck  _ is he doing here — sitting on the ground?

Connor doesn’t move anything save for his face. Can’t move anything, really. He’s lost control. Involuntarily disconnected. What he wants to do is lash out, jump up, yell his voice box raw. Express this emotion he can’t name. 

He hallucinates himself standing across from Hank. Winter sunlight halos Hank’s trimmed grey hair, creates him a person divine. The bubbles under Connor’s skin boil over. He sees himself become a mess of saline and something inhumanely hazy. Fists pound on Hank’s bare, tattooed chest with the force of a thousand furies.  _ I’m adaptable, I’m fitted to meld, but I’m not equipped for this! _

Hank grabs his wrists, like a breath of spring air, yet pushes him away.  _ Fuck’s sake! Get ahold of yourself, Connor! What, you’ve never experienced loss before? Shit. _

A sob is stifled, choked back, swallowed down. In its place festers a rotten, vile emotion.

All what Connor wants to do, he is unable to.

Feet move in accordance to their own agenda. Before he can register what he’s doing, Connor hears the bedroom door slam shut. Another warning flashes red.  _ Stress Level 78%...80%... _

Connor starts to feel himself go, braces himself by leaning onto the hallway wall.

_ Stress Level 84%...85%...82%... _

* * *

There are 168 hours in a week and Connor wastes all of them in a restless, grieving haze.

He rewatches films he and Hank shittalked; he hikes their favorite trails; he pulls out old pictures of them. The house becomes encompassed in memories drug up from closets, drawers, and cabinets. A tornado of life lived and life living. Sweaters pile up on chairs; coffee cups sit on the counter; photos are positioned neatly into an arc formation. It’s not until Connor runs out of things that he realizes he’s created an evidence board.

_ Who is Hank Anderson? _

Connor stares for a half-second longer before letting out a laugh. His eyes dart from one piece of evidence to another. Out of habit, he scans them to get information he already knows. The candid photo of Hank putting on Sumo’s leash was taken on April 15th, 2042. The band t-shirt was a gift for his 56th birthday. The handwritten letter addressed to Connor has a coffee stain in the upper left hand corner.

Connor laughs again, but it cracks in his throat. Aged paper crinkles in his hand when he takes it down. This is unfamiliar.

**_October 24th, 2039_ **

_ Connor, _

_ I’m not sure if I’ll ever send this fuckin thing out. Postal service is as good as dead nowadays. _

_ Anyways, in the event you’re reading this, I’m just gonna say it: I miss having you around even when you’re being disgusting. Dunno what it is or why I feel happier but...I hope I do the same thing to you sometimes.  _

_ I don’t wish you were here, though, because this place? Fucking sucks ass. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been sober for more than two weeks. You’d hate being here. You can’t be your own goddamn person. The only upside is that the therapy helps. _

_ Hope you’re doing okay & taking good care of Sumo. See you when I see you. _

_ — Hank _

Connor rereads everything thrice just to drink every detail in. Then he lets out a laugh because of  _ course  _ Hank wouldn’t have sent this out. It’s too short, too personal, not detailed enough. Of course Hank wouldn’t have…wouldn’t have sent...

He starts to cry. Then he laughs again and cries again and fills up with a sense of longing. It hits him that he  _ misses  _ Hank. All he’s left with now is an urn and an evidence board and decades worth of memories. A candle in the wind to the man as he was in person.

_ Who was Hank Anderson? _


End file.
